


Who Will Have Mercy On Your soul?

by cartouche



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: James loves his Q, M/M, Q angst, cutesy fluffiness, poor poor Q, suggested relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q bears responsibilities he can't hope to carry by himself. Fortunately, a certain Double-O agent seems to break into his flat at the right time, just in time to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Will Have Mercy On Your soul?

He loses track of the agent somewhere near the Bolivian border.

 

He’d been tracking him since he left Colombia, a flashing red dot on a map and a calm voice in his ear. He guides them as best he can, navigating the safest possible passage through the Amazon jungle, running on pure adrenaline. He hadn’t slept in over 72 hours, evidenced by the dark hollows gathering under his bloodshot eyes, and his fingers have all but seized up, frozen over his keyboard in case he can do something, anything, for the man out there in the tropical rainforest, risking his life, but it’s an occupational habit. M strolls in at some point and tells him to get some rest before he passes out, reassuring him the team can take over without everything going to shit. Part of Q wants to believe his soft words, like a parent comforting a child after a nightmare, but he shakes his head, blinks his tired eyes, and tries to stare at the screen in front of him without going going completely crossed eyed, or blind, or both. He racks his brain, several times, trying to come up with something else, a way out, a loophole, a line of coding that can save this man but all he ends up with is a shit ton more worry, twisting his organs into a nervous ball.

At some point M leaves to go home. Q realises it’s what he should do, but he can’t bring himself to leave the agent on his own, just in case.

A panicked voice rings through his earpiece at 3 in the morning, jolting Q awake. It takes longer than he’d care for him to admit to realise where he is, but he doesn’t have time to feel ashamed that he’d fallen asleep standing at his desk, his attention being demanded by the agent. He tries to stay calm, keeping the agent on the line while he simultaneous hacks into any tech nearby (there isn’t much, it’s a bloody jungle) and checks to see if anyone else in Q-branch is doing the graveyard shift and can come in and stop him from having a panic attack. He quickly deduces that firstly, there is no one, and secondly, there is nothing he can do for the agent except talk to him, forcing the waiver out of his voice and oxygen into his lungs.

The sounds of gunfire ring tinnily through his headphones, along with distant, garbled Spanish. Q tries to convince himself his heart doesn’t jump into his throat. He is forced to sit back and listen, ears soaking up every tiny sound; the huff of the agents breath, the rustle of foliage, the thud of feet pounding over the ground. He talks, calmly and slowly, more for his own sake than the man he barely knows on the other end of his radio, chatters about anything, soap operas and his cat and how grumpy M is, smiling shakily as the agent laughs, without really laughing at all, more like just a harsh tug of breath he couldn’t spare from his lungs.  

Q throws his headset across the room when the scream rips through it. The sound is blood curdling, stabbing through him, and he can barely imagine what is going on at the other end, sure that the scream will haunt his dreams for months to come. Then the red light blinks out. He panics, alone in his dark office with nothing more than the glow of his laptop to light the room, frantically tapping at his keyboard until his fingers ache and the muscles burn.

The red light doesn’t appear.

Eventually he stops, feeling heavy, as if the air around him has turned to lead and is slowly crushing him, bearing down on him and filling his lungs. He changes the agents status to MIA, sending a slow text to M before he curls up in the corner of his office, wrapping his arms around his knees, fixing his blurry gaze on the white wall opposite him. He loses time somewhere along the way, because the next thing he knows the lights are being switched on and M is there, gently shaking his shoulder and talking, and Q can see his mouth moving but the words sound wrong and there are wet tracks running down his face. Eve comes in and gently hauls him to his feet and he feels numb, too stunned to care about the cramp in his muscles and the cold in his fingers. They guide him to his chair and bring him tea he can’t stand to drink, so he lets it go cold, sitting untouched on his desk. M sits next to him, working quietly and making phone calls, occasionally glancing at him worriedly, Eve tries to make conversation before she realises it’s useless.

Eventually M sighs and puts down the file he’s reading and asks Eve to drive him home, telling him firmly to take a few days off. It’s not as if everything will fall apart because he’s not there. He wants to argue, to shoot witty remarks back at M, to go back to reinforcing the firewall on his laptop but all he manages to do is nod dumbly.

He doesn’t speak on the way home.

Eve parks outside of his apartment and asks him if he’s okay with sincere eyes that look far too old. He nods again, thanks her quietly and tries to ignore the voices in his head telling him he should have done more.

He stumbles up the stairs into his apartment eventually, figuring he probably should sleep because his body is shutting down after nearly four days running on cat naps, but his mind is restless, running over every second, wondering if there was anything he could have done differently. He avoids thinking about the agents fate.

He lurches into his living room, nearly tripping over Tchaikovsky, before slumping on his sofa. Then he notices the figure silhouetted by the light filtering in through his window and nearly screams.

‘Q.’ The voice is familiar, smooth, deep and rich, and knows his name, so he’s unlikely to be here to kill him, but Q can’t help wondering how he managed to get past his impressive security system. He watches the figure glide across the dark expanse of the room until a switch is flicked and light floods his sore eyes. He recognises the figure immediately, the sandy hair, black suit concealing broad shoulders, hard, icy blue eyes, and tries not to splutter, fixing him with the most disapproving glare he can manage. He has a feeling he just looks like a petulant four year old but he’s beyond the point of caring.

‘007. Aren’t you supposed to be in Sri Lanka?’ There is a quirk of lips, a shift of fabric, the glide of velvet voice. Q tries to ignore how he sounds like shit, like he’d just died and been resurrected.

‘I hit a dead end.’ Bond slides into a seat and Q ignores how he looks like the font cover of a porn magazine, rumbled shirt half open, revealing scarred, tanned skin stretched over hard muscle. Q isn’t sure whether a ‘dead end’ means that the trail really did run cold or that 007 once again abused his license to kill. He’s sure he’ll know soon enough. ‘You look like hell.’ He tries to be annoyed, but he’s too tired, and he knows it’s the truth. Living on nothing but caffeine can do that.

‘How did you get into my flat Bond? And more important, _why_ are you in my flat?’ He watches vaguely as this man, this assassin who kills for a living, bends down and gently scratches behind the ear of his cat. He scowls at the pet, cursing its traitorous nature as it winds around expensive trouser legs.

‘M told me you lost an agent today.’ Bloody fucking shits. He really wished M wouldn’t go behind his back and indirectly encourage certain agents to break into his flat.

‘And? It’s not the first time.’

‘You’re still beating yourself up about it.’ The last thing he needed was therapy from someone he was sure didn’t have a soul.

‘Of course I am. That man trusted me with his life and I betrayed that trust.’ He breathed, trying to ignore the tug of sleep in his limbs.

‘He knew the risks, he was a field agent.’

‘James.’ His tone comes out slightly sharper than he intended. 007 didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. ‘I don’t want to hear it. If M sent you here to lecture me you can get the fuck out. I’m not in the mood.’ He avoided the smile that appeared on thin lips, staring out of the window as the first rays of sunlight began to spill over the London skyline.

‘M didn’t send me. You really think he’d authorise me to break into your flat?’ Q shook his head. M wouldn’t do that. Besides, the only orders he gave to Bond were promptly ignored. ‘I brought scotch. It usually helps me after everything goes cock up.’

‘I don’t drink. Believe it or not I actually have a sense of self preservation, especially for my liver. You only have one remember.’ Bond actually looks shocked for a second before he recovers, gliding over to sit next to Q, the sofa shifting under his weight. M doesn’t bother turning to look. He doesn’t have the energy.

‘Looks like I’ll have more for myself then.’ Q doesn’t bother replying. He feels detached enough as it is, mind slowly succumbing to the numb darkness.

\--

Q wakes up not knowing he fell asleep. There’s a crick in his neck and his arm feels numb, but by far the oddest part is the gentle warmth permeating from beside him.

Then he remembers.

It takes every ounce of his willpower not to jump, scream and run as far away as he can physically get. He spends several minutes watching the slow rise and fall of James’ chest as he waits for the flush of heat behind his cheeks to subside before he slowly raises his head from a broad, muscled shoulder, waiting to see if he would notice. He tried to convince himself that his embarrassment was purely from the fact he hadn’t had anyone sleep in flat since … Well, _ever,_ and not from the fact the person happened to be James Bond, 007, womanizer, _license to kill_.

Carefully he tiptoed his way out of the room and into the bathroom, showering quickly before attempting to find half decent clothes on the floor of his bedroom. By the time he emerges in a rumpled jumper and shirt, trying to smooth his hair into normality, Bond is standing in his kitchen, putting two teabags into mugs next to his steaming kettle looking as perfect as always. Q wonders if it’s something in his genes. He looks up at him as he walks in, a faint smile on his lips disappearing as he slips his glasses on to his nose. It takes him less than a second to realise James must have been awake long before Q and had not only seen him sleeping, but had allowed him to drool all over his shoulder. He might not ever be able to meet his eyes again.

He stumbles sleepily over to his fridge, tugging out milk for the tea, praying that it wasn’t out of date before carefully refilling Tchaikovsky’s cat bowl, giving his ears a quick scratch. When Bond passes him a steaming cup of tea he thinks of all the things he should say, but in the end he settles for a muttered ‘Thank you’ before raising it to his lips. For a man who kills for his living he makes surprisingly good tea, not that Q will ever tell him. They don’t speak as Q shovels dry cereal into his mouth, or when he scoops up his spare laptop, or when he awkwardly sticks his arms into his giant parka. They don’t speak as Q opens the door and they both step out into the world.

But Q is grateful. 007 has seen the horror of death, and he knew what Q needed. He doubted he’d have been able to sleep at all without the comforting presence by his side. Even if he was a complete ass. At least now he felt marginally ready to face M and begin the search for the agent.

He didn’t say anything as Bond smiled and sauntered off down the road, heading in completely the opposite direction to the nearest Tube station, but Q thinks he got the message. Maybe he even enjoyed it too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing to get me used to the fandom. 
> 
> I accidentally fell in love with these two after finally watching Skyfall. Oops. I seem to have a weakness for dark haired sass masters and their badass boyfriends. It safe to assume more will be on the way, once I am inspired properly. 
> 
> Sorry for the generally awfulness, unbeta'd so apologies for all spelling mistakes etc. I'll try and fix all the mistakes ... Eventually ...
> 
> Title is from 'O Death' by Titus


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